London Bridge is Falling Down: A Romance
by Lono
Summary: He has a goal. He has a plan of execution. He has weighed immediate and future outcomes. Unfortunately, this all means very little to fate and Molly Hooper.


For **Amalia Kensington**

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><p><strong>December, 1941<strong>

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><p>He sits in in the café, clutching a cup of tea while he reminds himself that he <em>isn't<em> nervous.

Still, each time the bell jangles and a blast of cold air fills the small shop, his head jerks up, eyes darting to the door. And each time a stranger enters or exits, his brow furrows more.

Through the static-laden speaker of a radio, a woman croons about winter turning to spring when lovers meet in Mayfair. Not only does he have practical evidence to contradict this—he glares out the café window—but, today, the song also taunts him. It does nothing but darken his mood, though it does its best to cover the din of chatty nonsense spouted by other diners.

He taps his fingers against the ceramic teacup, offbeat to the music and he orders his jiggling knee to stop when it forcefully hits the underside of the tabletop. The hand he clamps on his leg to still its frenetic jostling proves futile when his other leg merely takes up the bouncing movement.

But he truly isn't nervous. Nerves are for the weak, and Sherlock Holmes is anything but. He's a self-sufficient adult. He's a learned scholar. He's a skilled fighter. He's terribly clever.

_Emphasis on the 'terrible'_, a gentle voice laughingly informs him in his mind.

Normally, he would turn his nose up at her voice's invasion of his conscience and her reference to his less-than-polished manners. Today, though, he only pats the breast pocket of his jacket for the thousandth time and mutters, "Where _are_ you?"

"Before I answer, I should make sure you're talking about me."

He looks up sharply to find Molly Hooper standing directly in front of him, working her fingers free of her sensible gloves.

He'd missed the bell above the door at the crucial moment, apparently.

"If you're talking about a nefarious criminal leading you on a merry chase, then I have no idea," she continues on, cheerfully oblivious—or rather, impervious—to his stormy brow. "If it's the latter, I'd say that's now fairly obvious."

Leaning back in his chair, Sherlock puffs out a breath of air and runs his eyes over her.

Beneath her winter hat, her hair is neatly styled, not the tousled, absentminded plait that she adopts when she works with patients. She's been in meetings all day, he surmises. Her outfit agrees with his assessment. She's wearing her smartest black coat and he can just spot the uneven hem of her best suit-dress peeking out underneath. She's always been terrible at mending.

_A fascinating contrast to her ability with sutures_, he thinks absently.

She is also soaking wet, covered in melting snow and her pumps show some grimy splashes on the uppers.

"You walked here," he says accusingly as he stands to take her coat and hat.

A frown settles briefly on Molly's face when he drops her belongings on the (occupied) table next to them, so he sheepishly sweeps them up again and hangs them from a nearby potted tree, instead. She shakes her head, though she smiles a little, and sits in the chair across from his before he can pull it out for her.

"I couldn't find a taxi," she finally explains. "It wasn't a bad walk. It's rather beautiful out there with the snow."

"It's nearly dark. That was stupid. The air raids aren't going to stop for one woman tottering through Smithfield." It's a rare occurrence for him to censure her or even use a mildly stern tone, but the amalgam of worry for her safety and… not-nerves for what he's about to do weigh on him.

Molly hardly looks chagrined. "In another half hour it'll be dark. It took me fifteen minutes to walk here and it was full light while I did so. There are hardly any air raids in the daytime."

"'Hardly any' does not mean 'none'."

She sighs impatiently. "We've had this argument before. I can't stop living my life because of the Blitz. If I hear sirens, I seek shelter, Sherlock. Treat me like enough of an adult to do that, at least."

"Do you know what would be even safer? Taking a bloody taxi."

"Circular argument," she points out.

"Besides," he says, unwilling to bend, "even if there isn't a raid, you might catch cold. You're hardly in winter clothing."

She interrupts with a "No." She reaches across the table to grab his teacup, taking a fortifying sip before she continues. "A virus will attack a cell no matter the temperature. It's just a case of weather driving everyone inside; too many people around, as you, my beloved misanthrope, would agree."

The nudge of her foot against his under the table serves as a playful reminder that she's teasing, and he offers her a small, reluctant smile.

"A virus would find you a very welcoming host. You're such a soft touch," he says, his voice haughty.

Molly's smile widens and she braces her hands flat on the table, leaning forward. "Oh ho! You think so?"

He shrugs and reaches across the brief tabletop to move the clasp of her bracelet around her wrist so only the charm and chain show. He lets his fingers linger against her pulse, and his lips curl when it betrays her continued expression of incredulity.

"You let me in," he reminds her, letting the emotional and _other_ meanings of his words hang in the air.

A pretty blush suffuses the already cold-pink of her cheeks. "You're not a virus," she says primly, fingertips dragging over his palm and fingers as she pulls away to reach for his teacup again.

"Would you like me to get you your own cuppa?" he asks, amused. Sometimes, he remembers his manners, misanthrope or no.

"Why bother when I can drink yours?" she grins. "So, you wanted to see me for some sort of 'urgent business'? I got your note from Doctor Mahaffey's secretary just as I was preparing to leave. He hates me, so he probably sat on it for hours."

And just like that, the not-nerves return, a pathetic wriggling of something unpleasant in the pit of Sherlock's belly. He'd managed to forget them for the briefest, sunniest moment while he and Molly discussed viruses, love, and tea.

"Right. About that," he stutters before a frown and distraction take over again. "Why would Mahaffey's secretary hate you? What's to hate?_ I_ hate _him_. Perhaps I should pay him a visit and expose his crucial failings to the hospital."

His umbrage and threat are genuine, but he can admit to himself that this serves as a nice diversion from the real purpose of their meeting.

At his barrage of questions, Molly reaches forward to brush a curl that has slipped over his brow away from his face. "You're like an grumpy, cynical knight errant. Thank you. I've got it handled, though."

"I still would like to know—"

"When you're a woman doctor, things aren't easy. You know that," she reminds him. "I find the best revenge is doing my job well and catch more flies with honey. I treat him professionally even when he's at his most vile. I come off better in the long run. I don't let him walk over me," she hurries to assure Sherlock when he starts to protest. "I'm kind, not weak."

He covers her hand, still resting on his cheek. "You're not. But you can think circles around that milksop. That and the work you put in to get where you are should afford you the utmost respect."

Molly sighs. "If only there were more men like you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Then I really would be a virus, replicating like a scourge" he reminds her. "And you'd be sitting in some other café with one of them, not me."

But she's shaking her head as he speaks. "Not even a chance," she says with the sort of assured honesty that reminds him of her eternal optimism and cheer even as he gloats to imagined hoards that she is with him without once voicing regret for her choice.

Her words embolden him.

"Molly," he says, bracing himself. He tugs her hand down and reaches for her other.

"Sherlock," she parrots, smiling at him in uncalculating expectation while she squeezes his fingers.

This is it. He's ready. "The reason I asked you to meet me is because I want to ask you a question. Will y—"

The blaring of air raid sirens interrupts him. He and Molly, along with the two remaining patrons and dwindling staff, jerk around to look out of the windows. There are few people on the street as the sky darkens, but those who are hurry away, seeking shelter.

So far, the air raid targets have been limited to strategic military concerns, with an agreement between Britain and Germany to avoid civilian areas. Mycroft has assured his younger brother that this small accord can only last so long, until Adolf Hitler realizes that Britain will never cede power to him.

To keep the fear at bay, Sherlock has to tell himself that the pact will hold tonight.

He arches an eyebrow at Molly, as if to say, "See?"

"Moot point," she says flatly as she stands to fetch her coat and hat. "Let's go."

Though they cannot hear the drone of Luftwaffe planes or the wail of sirens in any close proximity, they do not take the time to pull on their coats as they hold hands and hurry out into the cold, intent on reaching Mansion House station as quickly as possible.

The crush of people trying to go underground is maddening. It takes a fraught, frustratingly long amount of time, but Sherlock and Molly finally reach a platform with few enough people that they can wend their way through and find a spot to sit.

When he starts to spread his jacket for them to rest on, she stops him.

"Put it on. You'll freeze."

Before he can argue, she slides down the wall, wrapping her coat around her knees. She pats the paving next to her with a lecherous eyebrow waggle, and he gives a small chuckle at her distraction techniques. Somehow, the air raids have always made him more nervous than they have Molly. It's not a matter of her not giving them proper consideration, but she handles the stress and uncertainty with far more poise that he feels himself capable.

She pulls him down beside her and scoots as close to him as possible, and he allows himself the luxury and comfort of sliding his arms around her. She is warm and soft against him.

They spend the first hour watching the people around them.

"Silk," he murmurs to her.

"What?"

He points subtly to a young man, a waiter from the café, it so happens. "He's wearing silk socks."

The man in question is rolling tobacco, watching the crowd dispassionately as he pockets each completed cigarette without pausing to light one. Sherlock feels a small spear of longing for a smoke, but Molly asked him not to partake around her in consideration for her asthma, and he'd quit entirely, instead. Well, _nearly_ entirely.

"New?" she asks him.

He nods. "The dye is too vivid to be anything more than a year old. Rather fancy, all things considered." His eyes swivel exaggeratedly over to a propaganda poster plastered to the curved wall on the far side of the tracks.

**…**  
>TO DRESS<br>EXTRAVAGANTLY  
>IN WAR TIME<br>is worse than  
><strong>BAD FORM<strong>  
>it is<br>**UNPATRIOTIC  
>…<strong>

"Meanwhile, you're a regular Wellington," Molly smiles wryly. "It's almost gauche, how many Union Jack festoons you've hung in your flat.

Sniffing, he tugs up his trouser leg to put his utilitarian socks on display. "At least I adhere to the rationing guidelines."

"And how do you know he's not been given those socks as a gift from some foreign friend whose country's imports aren't currently blockaded?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "That particular weave is trademarked by Savile Row. He has someone on the _inside_."

She grins and ducks her head, kissing his shoulder. "That rotter."

"Indeed," he agrees, still shooting a poisonous look at the waiter.

Molly squeezes him until he turns his head back to face her. "We'll rebuild your sock index soon, my darling."

He scowls at his transparency until her charming smile gets the better of him and he lets a smirk replace the glare as he leans forward to press his lips to her forehead. "My birthday is a perfect occasion to gift socks," he says casually against her skin. "Bear that in mind for the next several years."

She nods happily. "Anything to stop you from trying to warm your cold feet on my calves in the middle of the night."

"You secretly enjoy it."

Drawing back, her eyes widen in surprise. "Now, _that_ is a well-kept secret. To think, I even hid it from myself!"

"The human mind is still very much a mystery," he agrees airily. "It likes what it likes. Personally, I find cold extremities to be rather unsettling. But far be it from me to rob the sensation from you. I'll try to remember to goose you with my frigid fingers every time there's a chill, moving forward."

Molly snuggles further against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You treat me so well."

"I'm a veritable Prince Charming," he says drily, tightening his arms around her as they fall quiet.

He is always stunned, whenever Molly at her silliest reminds him of just how much he loves her. This time is no exception.

They've known each other for seven years. He has first-hand experience with her intelligence and medical skills. Beyond smart, he's learned that she's also wise. She has a keen understanding of people that has assisted him and saved him more times than he can count. She is the compassionate balance to his academic mind, and in spite of or because of it, she supports and encourages him. He loves her for her mind.

He's held her, kissed her, made love to her for over a year now. He glories in the way she holds him, kisses him, and makes love to him in return. He loves her for the way she makes him feel.

But it at times like this, when she makes him—demanding, literal, severe Sherlock Holmes—smile, laugh, joke, and tease with her that he is genuinely shocked by the depth of his feelings for her, and he is continually astonished that she could feel the same for him.

"Molly," he whispers, withdrawing one arm to fumble for the breast pocket of his jacket.

"Hmm?" she asks tiredly, tone languid. She must have dozed off against his shoulder.

"I never got to ask you my question."

"What is it?" she says as she nuzzles his hand while he tries to find the pocket opening.

He doesn't get to answer her.

"Sherlock Holmes?" a man with a thick North London accent asks loudly.

Growling, Sherlock drops his hand and scans the crowd.

A young upstart comes forward, stepping over seated people, his swift approach impeded by them. His posture and expression exude seething anger.

While his mind tries to identify the stranger, Sherlock nods tersely. "You rang?"

"I have a score to settle with you," the man says, flicking open his shirt cuffs and rolling them up his arms.

"Oh, don't do that," Sherlock discourages him, rolling his eyes and stealing a glance at Molly. She is watching the other man, her expression neutral, though her hold around his waist has tightened ever so slightly.

"Don't flatten you? I think I might. Why don't you step away from your hussy and we'll have this out?"

"I beg your pardon?" Molly asks as Sherlock's brows shoot up to his hairline.

"My father is serving a nice long sentence thanks to this bastard. What luck that I spotted you tonight." The man starts bouncing on his toes. For a charade of jumping rope? To avoid a mouse? To warm up? Sherlock honestly can't say.

"Oh, for God's sake," Molly sighs, pulling away from Sherlock, ignoring his small noise of protest. She only leans forward, though. "You could just look him up in the directory. He's hardly untraceable."

The waiter glares daggers at her. "So?"

"_So_, if you really meant to 'settle a score', you would have done so ages ago."

Sherlock lips twitch and he relaxes, enjoying her.

"Maybe I had other things to do," the man says uncertainly, but he stops his jumping, wind knocked out of his sails.

Molly nods in understanding. "Yes, we all get distracted from our revenge plots occasionally. But tell me—" she looks at him in question.

"Glen," he supplies.

"Tell me, Glen, what did your father do to end up in prison?"

"Murdered a circus performer and framed the elephant."

"Oh!" It finally dawns on Sherlock. "Your father was Big Ring Charlie? I'd all but forgotten that case.

"Glen's father killed a man by dropping a cinderblock on his head from the trapeze platform," he explains to Molly. "He told everyone that the elephant had stepped on him. Forgot to account for the exact mass distribution of an elephant's foot on a human head, not the mention the physics of a falling block of cement. Also, the elephant just didn't act guilty. I think she would have killed a man using poison, if it had occurred to her."

Glen nods, fists flexing. This is all true.

"Have you visited Big Ring Charlie recently? I avoid Pentonville, myself. Not really welcomed by its residents." Sherlock bites his lip regretfully. "But do send your father my regards. Most entertaining clown I've ever seen, and that's saying something since I normally avoid them like the plague. Lousy murderer, though."

Big Ring Charlie's son puffs up in outrage. "He would have done better. He was under a lot of stress at the time. That's why he killed the elephant wrangler. He was making off with more of the proceeds and fixing the books. People just don't come to the circus anymore. They were all hurting financially."

Sherlock makes a high, doubtful sound. "It was probably a reflection of the circus' overall poor quality, more likely. In times of war, people tend to flock to mindless entertainment."

"Yeah, well, not in my father's case." Glen's eyes challenge Sherlock to disagree.

So he does. "_Especially_ in your father's case. I said he was a good clown, not a good performer."

Glen resumes rolling up his sleeves.

"Glen, Sherlock" Molly snaps.

They wilt and simultaneously mumble, "Sorry."

"You're forgiven. Now, I'll tell you what we'll do. Mr. Holmes and I will stay here on the southbound platform, and you go to the northbound. We won't be in each other's way, and the people around us won't be disturbed. It's a tense time." She holds up a hand when Glen starts to protest. "If you decide you wish to, er, 'settle a score' with Mr. Holmes later, I am sure he will pencil you in."

"Of course," Sherlock agrees.

"Hasn't this war hurt enough people? And I daresay it'll hurt more," she reminds Glen softly.

He bows his head. "Yes, Ma'am. You're right. I apologize."

"We understand"—she digs her nails into Sherlock's thigh when he starts to contradict this—"You miss your father. Be safe," she instructs him.

Nodding bashfully, Glen scuttles away.

Far from being impressed by Molly's cool diffusion of the situation, the people who witnessed the debacle eye them suspiciously, edging away in case another challenger appears. Seemingly, the masses are unused to vengeful family members seeking retribution and Molly and Sherlock present an unknown element.

So Sherlock scowls at them until they look away.

He glances at Molly to find her yawning. She returns to his arms and rests her head on his shoulder once more.

"I'm tired and now I'm going to have nightmares about clowns. Try not to disturb me until they give the all-clear," she instructs Sherlock.

Deciding that he'd rather ask her his question when dolts and clods aren't eyeballing them, he murmurs a promise to follow her directions. Not to mention, he'd rather not remember the moment years later by prefacing it with the sentence, "Well, first she told me not to bother her."

The platform falls eerily silent as people slump down, trying to find comfortable positions. Sherlock finds he cannot sleep, so he studies the shadows and reviews mental maps of the Tube to pass the time.

He's just managed to nod off, hours later, when the All-Clear sounds. Stiffly people regain their footing, groaning and rubbing at sore backs and rear ends.

Molly blinks owlishly while she buttons her coat and tugs on her hat and gloves, but she smiles briskly at Sherlock as they move with the herd follow the Way Out directions. They shuffle onwards and upwards, complaining with everyone else that the station has yet to implement escalators.

Several inches of snow have fallen in the hours since they went into the Underground. More continues to fall and the low-hanging clouds sock in the city. It is nearly five in the morning, but the late December sky shows no inclination to introduce sunrise yet. It is no matter, though. The reflection of streetlamps and lighted awnings off of the powdery snow light the streets and the sky with pink.

"The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a luster of midday to objects below," Molly says.

"What?" Sherlock asks blankly.

"It's a quote from—never mind. Come on, let's go to mine. I'm exhausted."

He follows without complaint, though he knows he can only go so long before he'll start requesting that they look for a taxi.

She moves across the pavement surefootedly, oblivious to the snow against her pumps. He wonders vaguely how she missed the forecast. He decides to remind her who between them has the cold feet that need warming when they finally make it to bed.

They're halfway across London Bridge when Molly demands that they stop so she can admire the glassy surface of the Thames.

"It's just so strange," she explains to Sherlock, though he fails to catch the allure. "Normally the boat traffic makes it so choppy."

"Yes," he agrees boredly. "Picturesque."

She bumps his hip with hers, her lips twitching.

But as he studies her in the strange snow-light, her eyes bright with excitement, he comes to a decision. The night has been a series of thwarted attempts, but this time, he swears there will be no distractions.

He pulls the box from his jacket pocket and says her name.

"Yeah?" she asks, still studying the river.

"Look at me."

She huffs, but turns, eyebrows raised. "Your face isn't choppy either, don't worry."

He ignores her quip and, instead, sucks in a deep breath before lowering down to kneel in front of her.

She frowns. "What? What did you drop?"

Before he can speak, she is down on her knees, too, ineffectually shoving piles of snow from side to side, trying to spot whatever it is that she imagines he's searching for.

He blinks at her. "What? No! I didn't drop anything. Get up," he snaps.

"But you're kneeling in a snowdrift. What're you doing?" She still shovels snow, and he's not sure she isn't about to start building fort walls.

"Molly," he protests, "I'm trying to propose to you. Stand up this instant!"

This stops her dead. She straightens away from her work, but only to settle back on her haunches while she stares at him in shock.

He rolls his eyes and pokes her. "Stand up. You're going to be soaked. You're wearing a skirt."

"No, I'm quite fi—propose?" She shakes her head and looks around at the deserted bridge. "You're asking me to—to—"

Sighing, he snaps open the velvet box, swiveling it to show her the ring inside. "To marry me? Yes, I am." Trust Molly to unwittingly start their engagement as unconventionally as possible.

Her eyes are huge, and they move slowly from his face down to the ring.

"You want to marry me?" she whispers.

"Yes." He doubts he's ever sounded so solemn as he does right now. "I do, very much. I love you, and I hope you will make me the happiest misanthrope in the world and say yes."

"Is 'happy misanthrope' an oxymoron?" she asks dazedly.

He is starting to feel uneasy by her non-answers. But somehow, despite the buildup to this moment over the past twelve hours, he has taken her utterly by surprise. He forces some patience to tamp down his disquiet. He waits, unmoving while Molly looks at him in wonder.

And then, just as he's about to demand that she get a move on with her answer, she smiles beautifully.

"Sherlock Holmes, will _you _marry _me?_"

"I asked you first," he says crankily. "Quit trying to steal my thund—_oomph_"

She's tackled him. He falls back into the snow and she goes over with him, pressing happy kisses all over his face. He lies there, staring up at the pink sky, strangely content until her mouth reaches his.

"Is that a yes?" he mumbles against her lips. "If it's no, you have a cruel way of turning a man down."

She worms her arms around him, mindless of the cold and snow, or the fact that they're lying on the roadside of a major river crossing. Surely, morning traffic will begin streaming past momentarily, despite the inclement weather.

"Of course it's a yes. I love you and have always planned to spend my life with you."

"Always?" he asks archly, lifting his head to study her where she's rested her chin on his chest.

"Well, nearly one fifth of my life, if we must be literal," she amends graciously.

"We must. Exaggeration of data is a scientist's worst nightma—"

She cuts him off with another kiss.

Eventually, they really will need to stand up. Hypothermia would severely derail any wedding planning, and Sherlock hopes he can convince her to do it sooner rather than later.

But for the time being, he can't bring himself to feel anything but happy to lie on the London Bridge pavement in the early morning snow with Molly Hooper, his _bride_.

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><p><strong>AN: **I totally stole Molly getting down on her knees to help Sherlock look for something he dropped from my grandparents' marriage proposal. My grandpa was preparing to ship off to European Theater when he popped the question. Unfortunately, my grandma was all too helpful. It's always struck me as devastatingly romantic and sweet. :)


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